


The Night of Kupala

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fauns & Satyrs, Fluff, Hannistag, M/M, Magic, Midsummer, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Some angst, Spirits, Willstag, hannistag au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: The days are long. The summer sun is high. The meadows are heavy with poppies in bloom.When he was still a fawn, the elder-stags told Will many stories about what midsummer magic could do.If the stories are true, then Will has to make the magic happen — for Hanni.---Written for the #WillInTheWoods challenge. Based on Camille'sHannistag AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlyingRotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingRotten/gifts).



"Wake up!"

Hannibal startles from his sleep. He looks up and finds Will kneeling beside him in the nest, backlit by the sunny entrance to their cave.

"Will, what? Danger?"

Will shakes his head. "No danger."

"Then what, mon amour?"

"You stuffed yourself earlier and you've been snoring all afternoon. Time to get up."

Hannibal rubs at his eyes. "You fed me too much fish. And all those strawberries would have spoiled if we hadn't eaten them."

Will smiles down at him. The early evening sun is streaming golden rays through his antlers where strange flowers still bloom. He smells of soft green moss. There is colour in his cheeks and his eyes are so clear and wide. How beautiful his mate is, Hannibal thinks. Will grabs him by the hand and tugs.

"Come on, old stag, get up. I need your help with something."

\----

  
Will is still holding his hand when they reach their favourite meadow, the one that runs long and wide along the forest's edge.

They wade into summer grass that's tall enough to swallow them up to the waist. "Okay Hanni," Will calls above the song of crickets and bees and tiny birds, "start picking flowers, as many as you can carry. Poppies, and others too. Rue and fennel and daisies and anything else you like."

Hannibal blinks at him. "Are we making more crowns? But I made some for us only yesterday.”

Will has already set about his task, gathering up a handful of marigolds. "Just get plucking," he says, glancing back with a frown. "And don't make any crowns yet."

"But—"

"I'll explain later. In the forest."

Above the scent of chamomile and thyme, Hannibal can smell something else, something he's only smelled on Will a few times before. The smell was there when they first mated, sweet and bitter all at once. The smell is like fear, but smaller. It's like joy or excitement of the hunt, but not as pleasant.

Nervous — Will is nervous.

\----

Laden with flowers, Hannibal follows his mate into the forest. He's curious and wary but asks no more questions. He trusts Will, completely. And besides, the path they take is familiar, and the evening is lovely and young. The sun has slipped behind the trees and stretched its warm, lazy fingers through the oaks and the elms and the pines. It will linger here for hours — as midsummer sun always does — and light their way.

Will brings them to a spot known and dear to them both: a lake nestled in the heart of the forest, a lake as clear and wide as Will's eyes. They've bathed here often, splashed and wrestled in the water, and mated sweetly on the mossy bank. Hannibal loves this spot. He's wondered at times if there is some magic about it, for he sees it in his dreams. But maybe that's just his memories of the time he's shared here with Will.

Will sets his armful of flowers down at the water's edge. He sniffs the air and looks about for fresh tracks. "Okay, I think we're alone."

A nest of silver birches grows near the lake and behind it, Hannibal spots a pile of carefully stacked branches. Will crouches down to inspects them. "I hope everything's still dry," he mutters. Then adds, louder: "Hanni, come here."

Beneath the stacked branches Will has stashed many things: a big clump of dry grass; a bundle of smaller branches; and two smooth, shiny rocks which he sets carefully aside.

Rocks and grass and branches Hannibal knows. But he cannot guess what it is that Will retrieves next: several constructions made of two sticks, crossed and tied together with willow twine. Hannibal kneels nearby and cranes in for a closer look. Are these traps of some kind? He's seen Will make those to catch rabbits.

He picks one up for examination. From the middle of each cross protrudes a small bundle of fine twigs. Hannibal leans in for a sniff: they smell of animal fat. He can't hold back the questions anymore. "What are these, Will? Did you make these?"

Will looks up from arranging the dry grass and shorter sticks into a small mountain at the edge of the lake. "Of course I made them, you silly stag." He moves closer to kneel beside Hannibal. "Here's what you do: start making crowns, but make them big enough to put on top of these," He sets one of the cross-sticks down on the ground and arranges some loose flowers in a circle around it. "See? Like this. You'll need to tie down the crowns with flower stems." He scratches absently at his fur, still frowning. "I made six of these. I hope that's enough," he says quietly, almost to himself.

Hannibal smells it again: nervousness. He has so many more questions, but he lets Will get back to his mysterious arrangement of grass and branches. He starts making crowns. He makes them quickly, as instructed and as beautiful as he can: big rings of daisies and anemones and foxgloves. And poppies — so many beautiful white poppies. He touches their delicate petals.

While he works, he steals a glance at Will, who's now taken up his two shiny rocks.  

Will meets his gaze. He swallows hard and licks his lips. "I don't know if this will work. I've only done it a few times, with my dad. It was so long ago."

He brings the two rocks above the small mountain of dry grass and branches. He strikes. If it weren't for the seriousness of his mate, Hannibal would laugh. Why is Will hitting rock against rock? Is he making music?

"Maybe the rocks are the wrong kind," Will says, again to himself.

But he strikes again. And again — harder. He huffs with frustration, then starts again. 

Hannibal puts down the third crown and stops to watch him, mesmerised by this strange and seemingly pointless ritual. 

Then he smells it before he sees it: a thin white trail rising from the grass pile. 

And then he sees what follows, what swallows up the grass with light and heat while Will gasps then laughs then claps then leaps to his hooves with delight.

Fire. It's fire.

Hannibal's heart floods with fear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a bit long, so added a chapter. Soz!

Hannibal knows fire. Fire comes from nowhere and eats up whole forests. Fire hurts like the hottest sun and turns everything to ash. Humans carry fire, and humans kill stags.

Meanwhile Will is still laughing, still clapping, so close to the fire that fell down from his rocks. Hannibal's fear turns to instinct: _protect your mate_.

He leaps.

He tackles Will to the ground, away from the smoking pile of grass and branches. "Will, danger!"

"What? No! Hanni—"

Hannibal is tugging at his shoulders: _get up, run_. Will won't come. Will wriggles under him, butts him with his antlers, just hard enough to knock him down.

They grunt and grapple and tumble until Will — stronger, younger Will — has Hannibal pinned down underneath him. "Hanni, stop! Listen to me, it's okay— it's okay."

Hannibal huffs and flings his head to the side, towards the flames and the smoke. "That— that is fire, Will. It's going to hurt you!"

"I know what it is. And it's not going to hurt me. I put stones around it, so it can't escape. But if you don't let me go, it'll die out. And I need it— I need it for something, Hanni. Something important."

Hannibal frowns up at him. Will's eyes above him are placating and soft. "Do you trust me?" he asks.

 _Completely_ , Hannibal thinks. After a moment, he nods.

"Then come on, I'll show you how it works."

Cautiously, Hannibal stalks back towards the smoking branches but keeps his distance. He flinches when Will adds more sticks and new flames lick their way up the pile. "You have to keep feeding it," Will says, "but once you add some bigger branches, it'll keep burning on its own for a while. You never made one?"

Hannibal shakes his head.

Will blows and blows until the flames grab onto more twigs and branches. They're blazing brightly now, and illuminating Will's face while daylight fades around them. "When I was growing up, only a few elder-stags knew how to make fire," he says. "It was always so difficult. It wouldn't start, or it would smoke too much. But when it worked, it kept us warm. And it kept bears and wolves away."

Hannibal must admit: the warmth and light are pleasant. His fear recedes further when the rising fire remains in its rock enclosure — just as Will promised. He shuffles a bit closer, back to his stack of flowers. Will leaves the fire to burn, and joins him.

Quiet settles around them while they work to finish the crowns. Big fragrant rings, as colourful as rainbows, pile up around them. The flames dance and crackle softly nearby. The forest is calm, filled with the evening song of countless drowsy birds. Hannibal's heart settles at last.

"Will, you said you'd explain..."

"Yeah, sorry," Will sighs, twisting a marigold into a poppy. "It's just— I'm not sure if this will work."

"This?"

"See these bundles of twigs between the cross-sticks?"

"The ones that smell of fat?"

"Yeah, those. We're going to make another small fire, in the middle of each crown. And then we're going to send the crowns out onto the lake."

Hannibal cocks his head to the side and frowns. "But why? I thought we could take them back to the cave, hang them up..."

Will looks so serious. And smells so nervous. "Maybe after. But we have to try this first. You'll— you'll see."

With the last crown finished, Will rummages through what's left of his stash of fire fuel, until he finds a long thin twig. He sticks its end into the flames. Hannibal's heart thuds again, just once. The fire is oh so close to Will's fur.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks.

"I'm sure. Just be careful. Hold up the crown like this, steady — that's it."

Slowly, Will brings the flaming stick down onto the fat-dipped twigs — they catch, and a tiny fire lights up the ring of flowers in Hannibal's hands. For a moment, all he wants to do is hurl it away, from himself, from them both. But then a strange calm descends on him: the light he's holding seems so weak, so uncertain of its fate in the nest of blossoms. It's all quite beautiful, Hannibal thinks: the flowers and fire, so fragile together. He sets the crown back down, carefully as instructed, and the flame stays lit.

One by one, the crowns are set aglow. "We have to work fast now," Will says quietly.

They wade in together and lower the first two fiery rings onto the water. Then the others, until all six are bobbing gently before them on the calm flat surface of the lake.

Will clasps Hannibal's hand. They watch the luminous flowers, the flames dancing like fireflies in the deepening dusk.

"Do you know what today is, Hanni?" Will asks quietly.

Hannibal blinks, eyes on the flames that flicker on the water. He flares his nostrils to smell the balmy air, the air of a day that's spent long in the company of the sun. "It must be midsummer, mon amour."

Will nods. His eyes, too, seem fixed intently on the flames. "When I was a fawn," he says, "I used to hear stories from my elders about the strange things that happened on midsummer nights. I don't know if any of them were true."

"What strange things, Will?" Hannibal never heard any stories. Not in the harsh mountain world of his childhood.

But Will doesn't reply. Will gasps instead. "Look!"

Something moves over the pristine surface, a rippling force strong enough to wake the water birds sleeping in the reeds and send them flying. Hannibal feels a splash about his knees. A large fish? No, cannot be. It's the whole lake, alive with a pulsing rhythm steady as breath. Rings ripple from its shores inward, drawing themselves into the centre. The force sets the flaming crowns in motion and sends them out onto the water, as if pulled along by invisible hands.

Hannibal, too, gasps.

"Should we stop them?"

Will squeezes his hand. "No! Let's just watch..."

Hannibal's heart begins to thump again. Their flames dancing wildly, the crowns drift out on the mysterious wake, one behind the other in a fiery chain. When they reach the place where the water rings converge, they stop.

Hannibal watches, hand damp in Will's clasp. "Will, what's happening?"

"I'm not sure— shhh, look!"

The crowns stir again on the rippling surface, shifting until they've formed a ring, like the ring of stones Will had placed about their fire. The six flames rise up from their flowery nests like long thin arms that stretch sparkling fingers up into the darkening sky. The arms bend towards each other and twist and twist until they turn to thick white smoke.

Held in its ring of flaming crowns, the smoke hovers over the centre of the lake. The forest grows still. Hannibal's heart thuds and thuds. He remembers the magic he thought lived here, the magic that visits him in his dreams. 

The smoke sways and dances. And while the fire arms still twist and the water still ripples, Hannibal thinks he can hear in their sizzle and splash a whisper. 

Is he dreaming?

"Can you hear it?" Will asks, very quietly. Not a dream them.

It _is_ a whisper. No, more than that: it is a song. Hannibal _can_ almost hear it. He looks to Will, questioning. Will nods and lets go of his hand.

_"Belle..."_

So faint, so weak. Delicate and thin, made of smoke and water. Hannibal takes a step closer. The whisper-song grows clearer. It fills the still, young night with sweetness and, when its words reveal themselves at last, they fill Hannibal's eyes with tears.

He knows the song. He knows it oh so well.

 

_"Belle qui tiens ma vie_

_Captive dans tes yeux,_

_Qui m'as l’âme ravie_

_D'un sourire gracieux,_

_Viens tôt me secourir_

_Ou me faudra mourir"_

 


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal turns to Will for answers.

"Will, I think it's— but it cannot be."

Hannibal cannot say it, cannot dream it. His breath feels caught in his chest.

Will stands beside him wide-eyed and awed. "Go to it, Hanni," he whispers. "Before the fire goes out. Go."

Hannibal goes cautiously — deeper into the water, called by the singing smoke. Further and further he wades, towards the heart of the lake, yet his hooves never seem to lose grip. The water holds him up and the sweet voice reels him in.

He reaches the fiery crowns. There, in their centre, formed of smoke and light, sings and dances the unmistakable pale shape of a tiny girl fawn.

Her long hair is like silver. Her voice is so sweet. Hannibal's face streams with tears. His arms reach into the circle and touch nothing but air.

"Is it you?" he asks. "Petite soeur, is it really you?"

The shape whips around, startled. And how could Hannibal ever mistake that little pale face?

"Grand frère!"

"Mischa. My Mischa."

"You look so— old!"

Hannibal laughs through his tears. "It's been very many moons, little sister."

The girl of smoke and light throws herself at him. He flings his arms out to catch her, but she slips through them like soft wind. She dances giddily around his shoulders, her own ghostly thin arms waving about his head. "You came! And your antlers, they're so big! And you have a beard!"

"Oh Mischa, I've missed you so much."

"I missed you too. But I see you in the forest sometimes, you know."

"Do you, petite soeur? Have you been watching me?"

"Yes! Sometimes your mate is with you. Is he nice? He looks kind of grumpy."

Hannibal bites back a smile. "He's only grumpy sometimes. Do you always watch over us, Mischa?"

She drifts back into her ring of flowers, crosses her arms and huffs. "Well, no. Not always. I have lots to do, you know."

"Do you?" Hannibal laughs. Then stifles another sob. "You're not alone, are you?"

"Me? No, silly brother. The forest has lots of sprites like me. And fairies! Do you know what the fairies taught me to do?"

"What did they teach you?"

The ghostly girl fawn does a cartwheel in midair and bursts into a giggle. "They taught me how to light up firefly butts!"

Hannibal laughs with her. She dives into the water, taking her laugh with her, then surfaces again amongst the floating flowers.

"The crowns! Did you make these yourself?"

"I did, Mischa. Do you like them?"

"I do, they're so pretty. And so many coquelicots. Hey, wanna see the firefly trick? If you do, we have to hurry."

"Hurry— but why, petite soeur?"

She floats into his arms again. This time he holds them out to gently cradle her weightless white shape. She hugs him, and he feels the embrace — not about his body, but about his heart.

"When the last crown goes out," she whispers, "I have to go."

\-----

When the last crown of flowers loses its flame, Hannibal is alone again. The water gives under his hooves and he drops down with a splash.

He bobs for a few moments in the lake and gazes up into a sky newly sprinkled with stars. He wonders which one belongs to her.

Then he swims to the shore and goes into Will's waiting arms.

His eyes dampen Will's fur. Will holds him close and doesn't say a word. The fire still burns nearby and warms them both.

"Did I dream that?" Hannibal asks at last.

"You didn't dream it, Hanni," Will says very gently, stroking Hannibal's mane. "I saw her too."

Hannibal looks up. The haze of his tears has softened Will's face before him.

"I don't know how to thank you."

Will drops his gaze and kicks one hoof into the sandy bank. "Don't thank me. I wasn't sure what would happen. The elders told me stories about spirits returning at midsummer, but I didn't know if she'd come back to you." He frowns a little. "Or what she'd look like."

Hannibal smiles. "That's why you were nervous."

Will huffs at that. "I wasn't nervous!" he grumbles. "I mean— I knew I had to try."

Hannibal squeezes his mate's hands and draws him down to sit by the flames, where piles of scattered flowers still lie. He finds a white poppy and threads it into Will's curls. The night has descended over the entire forest now, but the fire keeps them safe and warm. Moths dance wildly in its golden light.

"I don't think I'll be scared of fire anymore," Hannibal says.

Will smiles at him. "Does that mean you want to come back and do this next year?"

Hannibal cups his cheeks in both hands and kisses him sweetly. "Oui, mon amour. But next year, you must come out with me. I want you to meet her."

Will nods. Then grows quiet, turning to face the flames. That's nervousness again, Hannibal thinks.

"There's another story my elders used to tell me about midsummer fires," Will says after a while.

"Oh?"

"I only heard about it. I never saw it happen. They said— they said if mated couples leapt over a fire while holding hands, then—" Will bites at his lip and stares into the flames. He looks so timid. "Then they would never be parted."

Hannibal's heart leaps at the words. He catches Will's eyes, so full of light and hope. Their hands reach out and clasp.

"Shall we?" Hannibal whispers.

Will nods at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More about Kupala Night: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kupala_Night
> 
> The bit about spirits returning is fictional, the bit about couples is true.

**Author's Note:**

> All will be explained in the second chapter.


End file.
